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by simplycarryon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:00:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4902970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplycarryon/pseuds/simplycarryon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tiny cottage nestled in the ruins fills you with determination.</p><p>But first, you need sleep, and food.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [feralphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/gifts).



> sort of vague implied spoilers for Things You Don't Learn Until The End Of The Game, maybe. if you haven't finished the game yet go and do that thing, this will still be here when you get back

Chara has been uncharacteristically quiet ever since you reached the tiny house in the ruins.

You would be worried if you weren’t so _tired_. Exhaustion bleeds from your skin, leaks from the corners of your eyes as you yawn; you fight to remain upright as the thought of sinking into the carpet of leaves outside the house and not moving for a very long time almost brings your journey to an end right there.

But instead of curling up for a musty autumn nap, you let Toriel take your hand. She looks—startled, you think, trying tiredly to place the way her eyes widen at the sight of your blood leaking through your bandage and staining your shirt. You don’t want to tell her that you nearly got your butt handed to you by talking vegetables, that you had to choke down a doughnut with _actual pieces of spiders in it_ just to make it through after she specifically told you to stay put and wait for her.

You’re reasonably sure she’s disappointed in you for not waiting.

“Concerned,” Chara says suddenly, frostily, from somewhere in the back of your head, as Toriel kneels in front of you.

“What?”

“She’s concerned. Not disappointed. There’s a difference. With her, anyway.”

You would ask them to clarify, but your skin prickles with the sensation of magic, cooling pinpoints dotting your skin. It takes all your concentration to not flinch out of the way; your reflexes tell you to move, that vegetables or slime or acid tears are going to come raining down on you any second and everything is going to hurt even more.

Instead, you feel… relaxed.

Cool air swirls around you, soaks into your skin; it feels like ice against your bruises, bandages that cover your cuts and scrapes. Even the hitch in your breath from getting body-slammed by a big dumb frog melts into nothing, the sore mark against your ribs fading from _ow_ to ow to what you’re sure would be unblemished skin if you took your shirt off to check.

“I have healed you, my child, “ Toriel says, leaning in just close enough to touch her forehead gently to yours. “I am sorry I did not return for you sooner. I was so excited to have company, I…”

She trails off and stands up, smiling as she offers you her hand once more.

“You must be tired.”

You nod, not trusting actual words to come out, and let her lead you.

\---

The first bite of pie melts in your mouth, buttery sunshine against your tongue. It’s sweet, but not cloying, and the cinnamon gives it a warmth that you can almost feel in your bones.

It takes you a minute to realize you’re crying.

Tears well in your eyes, drip down your cheeks unbidden, splash on your shirt and the plate in your hands. You’re not sad, you think, scrubbing hurriedly at your eyes with one dirty sleeve; you don’t know why the nostalgia is thick in your throat, why your eyes burn and your chest swells hot with a feeling of familiarity. This feels right, sitting like this, cocooned in bedsheets with a slice of cinnamon-butterscotch pie in your hands. This feels good. This feels like _home._

You half expect Chara to mock you, to be disgusted by the fact that you’re being emotional and _leaking_ while stuffing your puffy face with pie, but they've been almost completely silent ever since Toriel brought you to your little red-orange guest bedroom and you all but fell into bed.

It’s only when you reach out to them to make sure they’re okay that it clicks: the tears streaming down your face are theirs.

 _“Don’t,”_ Chara warns thickly, their voice catching in the back of their throat even as they interrupt your almost-formed question. “Shut up. I don’t know.”

“Should I stop?” you ask instead, wiping your eyes again. 

“No,” and then, after a very long pause, “please don’t.”

“Do you want to—“

“ _No._ Just—eat. Don’t talk to me.” 

You nod, just a tiny bit, and take another bite.


End file.
